Unhinged
by secondmezzanine
Summary: Barney hides a quarter on his person. Robin goes diving for it. They angst. They smut. And Robin has a slight panic attack.


**Disclaimer**: Sadly, I own nothing.

"That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard."

Barney shrugs. He's leaning back on his couch, his legs crossed cockily on the coffeetable. "I never said it was intelligent."

Robin sits in his living room chair, with her chin in her hand, her eyes wandering around Barney's immaculate apartment. "So let me get this straight. You just… hide a coin… _wherever_… and invite her to find it?"

"It's a party game."

"And this leads to…?"

"It usually transitions into balancing our checkbooks. What do you think, Scherbatsky? It transitions into both of us getting what we want."

"To get laid, you mean."

Barney's eyes flash quickly over her. The corner of his mouth twitches. He turns back to his beer. "That's the general idea. _Don't_-- say it," he interrupts himself as she prepares to salute him, _General Idea_!

Robin bites back her smile. She looks around the apartment again. Everything's so… bright. She almost squints against the glare of the shininess of Barney's place. It's been awhile since she was here. It's been awhile since they were the only ones without plans on a Friday night (or should she say, since Barney had decided that he needed a night off from clubbing or laser tag). Since they'd ended up alone together. Alone. Together. Together alone. She swallows, uncrosses her legs, then re-crosses them.

"You all right?"

"Hmm?" She jumps.

Barney pulls his legs off the coffeetable and pins her with a look. "I asked if you were all right. You're a little jumpy."

"I'm fine. So… you haven't used this coin trick since college, huh?" _Let's just keep the chatter going, Barney. _She pulls the hem of her dress over her knees.

Barney shakes his head and laughs. "I've got better ways of getting a woman nowadays."

"Oh right, like pretending to have a baby to score with single moms. Or pretending to have an evil twin… or telling them you have twelve hours to live. Lying, basically." Robin laughs and lifts her beer in toast. "To refined methods that come with age, my friend." She takes a swig, but lowers the bottle when she notices Barney hasn't moved.

He hasn't moved and hasn't looked at her. Hasn't laughed. Hasn't affirmed his ladykiller skills and hasn't tossed back another drink. He's just… sitting there, taking a deep breath and jiggling his foot slightly so his whole leg shakes.

Robin feels a sudden stab of remorse. "Hey, I didn't mean anything bad."

He scoffs a little, but the humor is only half there. "Right."

"No, I mean—oh come on, that's our thing! We give each other crap, right?"

"Mmm."

Feeling a little awkward, Robin takes another drink. She tries to smile at Barney. He just looks ahead, slouched onto the couch like he hasn't slept in weeks. His tie is askew. After a moment, he lifts his hands and claps once. Immediately the lights dim. He reaches for his beer again.

"Oh, that's better," Robin chatters after a moment. "These lights are so glaring, you could probably perform an appendectomy in here… speaking of which, my boss had one of those last week. Just keeled over in the middle of a commercial break… appendicitis at forty-six years old, I mean…" _What the hell are you going on about? Appendectomies?_ Her voice feels shaky in her throat, but she's going to talk until he looks at her.

Why won't he look at her?

"So Darryl's been filling in while Ron's out, and I don't know, I guess he's not used to it, because he keeps shouting at janitors to bring him coffee and now we're all hoping that maybe this whole appendicitis thing could be catching and Darryl will suddenly keel over too, because…" she's babbling, she knows, but Barney's leg is still jiggling and the room is still too quiet and it's still one A.M. and things are still just… _weird_.

_How long is this going to go on?_ she wants to ask. _Until we forget that we slept together five months ago? Until you can look me in the eye without immediately looking away? When's that going to be, Barney?_

She misses him, she realizes. For awhile there they'd been almost—best friends, maybe. And then the sex thing happened, and somehow, under the guise of completely-not-affected-friendship, they've deteriorated to the point where he won't even look at her.

"…so I just chipped in forty bucks for the flowers because I mean, I dunno, it's not like Ron ever followed through with those threats so all in all he's been a pretty good boss, and next week—"

"I never lied to you."

Robin breaks off with her story, the words catching slightly in her throat. Barney hasn't looked up, but he's looking forward now, at the wall-sized television, a slight strain at his jaw.

"Wh—what?"

"I said," he says, louder now, "I never lied to you."

She pauses. "I know."

"I don't think you _do_, Robin. I don't know if you've noticed, but that's the third time you've brought up my slight tendency to… stretch the truth—"

"Stretch the truth?" Robin exclaims. "You mean pull it completely apart—"

"Beside the point. Maybe it's not intentional, but you've been subtly calling me a liar for months. Like you blame our-- _thing_-- on that. But I didn't tell you that I think you're—you know… you _know_. To sleep with you. Okay? So just stop." He picks up his beer again, seems to contemplate it, and slams it back down on the coffeetable.

Robin stares at him, her mouth hanging slightly open. "I don't—" She cuts herself off when he finally raises his eyes to hers.

There's silence for a moment when he looks at her. A moment ago, she'd wanted him to, but now it's her turn to look awkwardly away, because it's that look that he's been giving her for several weeks, maybe months now. She's not sure when it began. She isn't even sure what it is. Just… there's some kind of brutal honesty etched into the way his eyebrows are pinned together, the slight crease of his forehead, the way he's biting his cheek like he's thinking too hard about her. Analyzing her. Usually she catches him looking at her this way when she's paying her tab at the bar and waving goodbye from across the room, or when she slides in to the booth next to him and their eyes meet for only a second until they both look away. Never this openly. Never when it's just the two of them.

_Quit dissecting me like that_, she wants to say. At first she had wondered if he was just picturing her naked (reaching into the ol' b-peg file), but she doesn't think that's it anymore. He's not stripping away clothes, he's stripping away--

Well, she doesn't know, really. Something that's—something that makes her feel raw. Exposed in a non-sexual kind of way. And she really, really hates feeling exposed. She's Robin Scherbatsky, who shuts her eyes during sex. Robin Scherbatsky who has been known to blindfold a man in bed just to keep him from doing the whole "look romantically into my eyes while we make love" thing.

Man, she really hates that phrase. _Make looooove._

She's suddenly incredibly aware of the way her heart is pounding in her chest, of the buzzing of a light somewhere, the ticking of the refrigerator in the kitchen, the slight blink of Barney's eyes. She takes a breath. "Okay," she chokes out. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to imply… sorry." She rubs her neck. Her chest feels so-- _tight _suddenly--

She stands and paces back and forth in tiny circles. Her heart keeps racing along. "I feel sort of—anxious," she says. "Maybe I should go." She shakes her hands out.

"Hey," Barney says, the _look_ disappearing, replaced with concern. He steps around the coffeetable and grabs her hand. "You okay?"

She's breathing hard. "What the… hell," she whispers, rubbing her chest.

"Okay, I think you're… Robin?"

Her head snaps up to look at him. He blinks. His eyes are on her. He has a tiny scratch above his lip. She thinks she might pass out.

"Robin. Hey. You're—I think you're panicking. Come here. Sit down." He pulls her over to the couch. He sits next to her and pushes her shoulders back a little. "This happened to me a few times when I was a kid. Just out of the blue, bam, panic attack. Here, breathe."

"No I'm fine, I'm fine, I just, can't, breathe—" Her breath is coming in sharp, quick gasps.

"Ssh," he says briskly. "Don't talk. Lean your head back, close your eyes." He picks up her hand again. "Take deep breaths. Really slow. You're hyperventilating, kid."

She squeezes her eyes shut and tries not to think about the fact that Barney's got her hand clutched between both of his, that she's stupid and scared and doesn't know why the hell this panic suddenly washed over her, or about the fact that he's looking down at her now, that she can feel his gaze on her face.

"Keep breathing."

She tries.

"Concentrate on my hand."

She tries.

"Breathe slow."

She likes Barney's hands. It's not like she's touched them a lot, but she looks at them all the time, at the way his fingers splay out across a glass or the way he flicks them around with a flash when he's trying out some new magic trick or when he's sliding his fingers up his thighs, tucking them into his pockets… she likes how warm they are now, how he's grazing his fingers along her wrist, massing her palm with one hand, pressly hotly between her fingers with the other—

She also hates his hands a little, too. She breathes hard, in, out, trying to regain a modicum of control, trying not to notice how tenderly he's touching her, trying not to remember the feel of his hand sliding from just under the back of shoulder, down her torso, gripping her hip, sliding over sweat, moving down, down, touching her wet and hot until she was screaming his name--

She gulps and rips her hand away. "Don't."

"Don't—what, hold your hand? Jesus, Scherbatsky."

Her eyes are open now. They look around wildly, settling on Barney's face. His expression is one of genuine concern and confusion.

"Hey. You okay? Keep breathing."

She swallows hard and nods, closing her eyes again, breathing in and out. They sit in silence for a minute, neither one moving, until she feels like she's not going to pass out.

"How'd you know?"

He leans back a little, a hand on her knee. "How'd I know what?"

"What that was. What to do."

"Oh." He loosens his tie a little, then seems to reconsider. He pulls it clean off and tosses it on the coffeetable. "Just… like I said. Happened a few times when I was a kid. It sucks, I know."

She's feeling more and more normal now, sitting here with their shoulders touching, and embarrassment is starting to settle in. "Sorry, I… feel like an idiot. I don't know why—"

"You don't need a reason."

She shakes her head, leans forward. "Let's… play a game. I want to just—think about something. Anything."

"Uhh, okay. You want to—"

"Let's play the coin game."

"The coin game? Robin, maybe I didn't make myself clear about that game—the whole point is—"

"I don't care, I just want to think about something else!" Robin cries, running her hands through her hair. She feels like five months of living on edge, feeling reckless and confused and alternately pissed and lonely has just combusted inside of her, all because he fucking-- _looked_ at her for a few seconds, and she just wants it to stop.

"Okay! All right, fine. You got it. Are you sure you're okay?"

"Dammit, Barney!"

"Oh-_kay_! Damn… close your eyes." She hears him reaching into his pocket, the sound of change jangling and being set on the table, and a moment of hesitation. Then there's a rustling sound. "All right. So… find the coin."

Robin opens her eyes and looks at him. The look of concern has disappeared from his face. Now he just looks—amused. That stupid smirk of his, the one he always wears when he's got some dirt on something stupid one of their friends did, or when he's gotten really, _really_ lucky with some twenty-two year old he met at the gym. She fucking hates that smirk. He really is a cocky asshole sometimes.

"Well?" He grins.

Robin narrows her eyes at him. She thinks for a moment that she should just storm out of the apartment and take a nice long walk through the city, soothe her lungs on hot night air, but there's something that stings just inside her ribcage and she feels like working it out. Right now. On him. _I'll show him_, she thinks, although she's not sure what exactly it is she's going to show him. _Maybe I'll show him to stop looking at me like that_.

She dives in.

First she shoves her hands into his jacket pockets, one by one. Receipts. A lighter. A woman's barrette—ugh, she does _not_ want to know about that one. Barney lifts his arms in the "I'm innocent!" gesture, giving her better access. She tosses the receipts on the floor and rearranges herself so that she's sitting on her knees on the couch cushion next to him. She's breathing hard again, but now it's more with an angry exhilaration than any kind of panic, and she roughly shoves her arm into his jacket and around his back, running her hands along the fabric of his shirt, searching for the outline of a coin that may have been dropped down his collar.

Barney growls a little at her, making fun. "Careful there, this is an expensive suit," he cracks. She ignores him, her hands wandering over his waistband, where his shirt poofs out a little where it's tucked in. No coin. She groans in frustration and looks up at him.

"This is a stupid game."

He raises his eyebrows. "You already said that. But you know… it gets the job done." The sight of his half-smile makes her nose twitch.

_Enough of this_, she thinks. She shoves him back into the couch and throws a leg over his lap, sitting up on him to straddle his knees and face him head-on. "I'm going to find that fucking coin."

"Be my guest."

Their eyes lock for a second. He's teasing her, enjoying her unexplained burst of—whatever this is. Tension?

She rips her eyes away. Leans forward and slides her hand into his breast pocket, stretching the fabric back and forth as she searches. Her fingers meet his wallet, and she pulls it out and tosses it behind her.

"You know, you don't have to completely empty my pockets," Barney says, his eyes craning around her shoulder to see where his wallet landed. "You're making a mess."

"_You're making a mess_," she mimics, plunging her hand back into the breast pocket. "You never struck me as the type who cared about messes." She raises her head and looks around, one arm still bracing herself on the seat-back, one elbow still pressing against his chest for balance.

"Oh, I'll make an exception for certain kind of messes," he says with a slight eyebrow wag.

Robin stares down at his sleazeball expression. "Ew."

Barney laughs and slides a hand up her thigh. She's instantly aware of the fact that she's wearing a dress and if his hand moves much farther north, they'd be married in some countries. "Yeah well," he says, his voice low, "Don't tell me you don't like making a mess every now and then."

Robin grabs his hand, stopping it before it pushes her dress up much farther. "That's disgusting," she says, feeling a little breathless.

"Right, because you sitting on my lap with your hands shoved down my pocket is completely clean and tasteful." He takes a deep breath and tries to adjust his position on the couch so she isn't pressing her full weight down on his legs. As he moves, Robin's knees slip deeper into the couch, tighter around his hips, and she panics slightly at how much closer—it's just inches, really, but it feels like everything—their bodies suddenly are. The way it hits her is unexpected, like she's ended up with far more than she bargained for when she suggested trying this game just for a distraction.

Oh, it's distracting all right.

At the movement, Barney freezes and groans. "God, find the coin already," he mumbles.

She watches him struggle slightly, suddenly hit with a feeling of power. He's a man, after all. She could just wiggle a little on his lap, maybe stick her tongue in his ear, watch him groan with frustration and then she could grab her purse and high-tail it out of here, leaving him to cry like a baby in her wake. Now that would be taking control. And she really, really likes the thought of taking control right now.

"You got it," she says, driven, and practically rips his shirt open, revealing golden skin and light fuzz and a pleasant smell, like soap and something masculine. _God, he's beautiful_, a voice sighs somewhere not-so-far back in her mind. _Stop,_ another voice answers. _Move things along. Use him a little. Like he uses other women. Like he used you._ She runs the back of her fingers down his chest and abs, letting herself feel how warm his skin is, how hot, even, and lets the voices argue for a moment. _He didn't use you—yes, he did—took advantage that night—he wouldn't do that—went right back to sleeping around—that's what I wanted him to do, what I basically asked him to do—no, you never wanted that—_

"Scher-_bat_sky," he's groaning, and she realizes that now both his hands are on her bare thighs, pushing farther and farther up at the blue fabric of her dress, and she wants him to do it, wants him to tug it right off and put his mouth on her, but he's _smiling_ and she wants the control back.

She rips at his shirt front again, and this time a button really does go flying, and a slight cry emits from his throat, his eyes sadly following the button as it falls down under a cushion. Robin reaches up and grabs his chin roughly, pulling his gaze away from the button. She turns her attention back to his torso, leans in and slides her arm down his back, reaching blindly at his waistband for the hidden coin. She isn't sure whether she's relishing how his body feels in her hands, or if she's trying to ignore it, treat it like nothing, like an inconsequential body she just happens to sit next to in a bar every night. A body that just _happens_ to have once blown her mind into next October.

"Dammit," she mutters, trying to move her hand lower and reach into his back pocket. She sits back for a moment, avoiding his eyes, and takes his wrists in hers. She pushes them back so that his arms rest on the back of the couch, and he's splayed out before her, partially undressed, looking slightly—damaged. He's got that _look_ again. Like he's trying to figure out every little thought in her head.

"Robin," he warns.

"Stop _talk_ing," she says, and leans forward again, letting her forehead fall into his chest as she tucks a hand under him and into his back pocket. He thinks she's going too far. He thinks she's losing control of herself. He thinks he gets to be noble and stop her. He inhales sharply when she uses her free hand to clutch at his belt buckle for balance. She feels the rise of his chest against her eyelashes, hears the slight break in his voice when he tries to speak again.

"Robin—"

She sits back up on his knees, glares at him.

Barney's face keeps drifting from a smile at the predicament she's gotten them both into and that vulnerable, damaged, _I'm-too-noble-to-let-this-happen-again_ expression. "You're upset," he says stupidly, grasping at the hand she has on his belt.

"So what?" she says, eyes darting wildly. "I was last time, too. Didn't stop you."

His mouth falls open and after a moment, a humorless laugh falls out. "You mean it didn't stop _us_."

Robin shrugs and twists awkwardly on his lap to slide a hand down his pants pocket. Her hand brushes against him through the thin fabric, and she can tell he's getting hard. His sharp intake of breath startles her; her head snaps up, faces just inches apart, and she feels a slight thrill as the torture flashes over his face. Barney bites his lip and groans again. "I see what you're trying to do."

"What, find the coin? Hmm-hmm," she teases. Her fingers widen in his pocket, deliberately brushing against his erection.

Barney lurches forward at the touch. He grabs her hands, yanks them away. "No," he squeaks out, eyes clenched shut. "You're acting like the fact that we slept together was all my fault, like it was all because I'm a—"

"_Slut_," Robin says without sugar-coating.

His eyes meet hers and narrow a bit. "Fine. But we both know that it was mutual, and we both know how much we rocked it. And now you're upset and you're just trying to get a rise out of me. No pun intended." He pauses. "Well, maybe a little bit intended."

"Stop it."

"What, exactly?"

"Stop—analyzing me. You're always analyzing me! Even before we slept together, you did it. When I was with Ted, you always—"

Barney shoves a hand over her mouth. "Look, while you're sitting on my lap and I'm ready to—god, Scherbatsky, I'm ready to screw you right now, could you please not bring up your relationship with Ted?" He lets out a half-growl of frustration.

Robin's head is pounding. Or maybe it's just her heart is pounding. She feels it everywhere, everything in her crying out. She doesn't know what she wants. She hates him, sitting there, clearly turned on as hell but not making a move, agreeing to this stupid game, looking at her like he maybe cares. _Do something. Now or never._ Robin inhales and pins him with a kiss. A hard, jarring kiss that stops them both for a moment.

God, his mouth is hot. She wonders fleetingly what the average temperature of his mouth must be, whether anyone has literally been burned by the heat that envelopes her lips, her throat, a straight shot to her belly and beyond. Everything is hot in an instant. When his hands pull her shoulders in closer, she thinks surely steam must be rising somewhere, because his fingers are searing against her bare skin and she's going to melt right into him.

And then he pulls away and his chin scratches her slightly and she wants to push her cheek back against it, wants to feel him inflict something on her. She shoves her knee into the side of his leg, yanks a little on the hair at the nape of his neck. _Come on, Stinson._

"Stop," he says. "Tell me what that was all about before. Why you're—freaking out."

Robin avoids his eyes. She puts her lips to his ear. "You said I didn't need a reason." Her voice sounds irritatingly vulnerable. She nips at his earlobe to make the sound of it stop lingering.

"Well, I take it back, because I don't know if you want to fuck me or beat the hell out of me."

"Maybe both." _Shut up, Barney. _She lets both her hands trail down his chest, feeling it rise and fall sharply._  
_  
He shifts under her. "But why? Just tell me so we can get to this part—" Suddenly his hand is pulling at the small of her back and then oh _god_, his fingers are between her legs, shoving the thin strip of cotton aside and plunging into her wetness.

Robin cries out. It's almost a sob. _Yes, this._ Her arms clutch at his shoulders, her nose pressed into his hair.

"Tell me, Robin," he whispers.

She whimpers. _I hate you. _"Because you—god you _unhinge_ me." Her voice cracks over the words and she grinds her hips downward, letting his fingers slick over her. She's wet through, and if she ever thought that his hands were too soft, too well-manicured, she was wrong, because she feels every molecule of him, every crease and rough edge of his skin as it slides over her clit and he's perfect, so horribly perfect. She clutches his neck, tries to hide her face and rides his fingers.

"Look at me," he says harshly. She shakes her head against him and abruptly he pulls his hand away from her. Robin rears back and glares at him in desperate protest. Barney's face is—it takes her a moment to recognize what it is, and then it hits her—it's determination.

"Please," she says softly.

Barney's mouth twitches. Then, watching her face, he slams two fingers up inside her.

It's all she can do not to scream in pleasure. Her head falls down against his chest, and instantly, Barney pulls his fingers out. "Oh no," he says, louder now, "you don't get to do that. Quit hiding. Look at me." Robin moans in frustration, but when he slides a knuckle over her clit again and pulls away, she lifts her head and glares at him. He grins, and then his fingers are inside of her again, suctioning in and out like he's a professional (_he practically is—oh god—who gives a shit—_), and his fingers pounding against her is better than any sex she's ever had—she doesn't even care if she ever comes at this point, so long as she's riding his lap and he's touching her touching her touching her touching her—

"Robin," he breathes. "Robin." He locks his eyes on her, like he's daring her to look away and still warning her that if she does, this stops. It's all surreal, her fingers clutching at the curve of his neck and shoulders, her bare knees locking around him, his nostrils flaring slightly, his eyes blinking once, twice, pupils trained on her as she gasps for air and tries to hang on.

"So close," she whimpers, _god_, loving his skin against her skin, sweat against her wetness, thumb on her her _her_, loving him inside her like this, loving, loving, loving, _not making love_ she screams somewhere far off. "So close…" Her head droops slightly, eyes rolling back a little, and without breaking his rhythm suddenly his free hand is on her jaw, lifting her head sharply back up to keep eye contact.

And his face—"Barney," she says—his face is—that look, it's still that look, but his mouth is open and he's flushed and _he's not even having sex, it's all for me_— there's no mistaking it. He—_adores_ her—

"Robin. Robin… I—" His thumb strokes hard against her.

"Now," she cries and she's coming hard, eyes on eyes, her stomach clenching up and some kind of guttural cry escaping her throat and his fingers are hot and hot and hot. She's rippling back and forth on him, making the sensations last, not wanting them to burn out because when they burn out then she'll look away and she'll have to get control again.

But they do burn out. And his eyes are still open on her and she's still locked into them.

And then Barney's eyes darken and she looks away.

Her breaths shudder and she shakes, his fingers still inside of her, until the aftershocks finally subside and she's aware of the dim lighting and the ticking and the immaculate apartment. She suddenly remembers there was a coin somewhere, that she never found it.

"That," she stammers, "that's how that usually goes?"

Barney's jaw quivers slightly.

"That's what you do?" Robin says, her voice gaining volume. His face is in focus now, he's Barney, regular Barney, Barney who looks and analyzes and smirks again. "That's what you do?"

"What?" he says, shaking his head slightly.

"You make a girl do that—have _that_-- and it's a party game?" Robin pushes slightly on his arm. His hand slides out of her, along her leg, wet and warm.

"No," he says in disbelief.

"You make her—you make her look at your face," she says slowly. "You make her look in your eyes while she comes and you make her think that you… that you…" Robin swallows hard. "That's how it usually goes?"

Barney's eyes flash. "No," he says angrily. "That's _not_—"

"It is though, isn't it? You--?"

"No," he repeats. "No, that's _not_ how it usually goes."

Robin feels her face flushing. She's suddenly realizing, or just—wondering, really—what in hell he must have seen on her face. Whether she had looked like a sorority slut who needed a good screwing, or whether she's looked at him like somewhere along the line she'd fallen in love with the big bad wolf and at the thought she thinks she's going to cry. "Yes," she murmurs softly. "You make them fall-- fall for you by looking in their fucking eyes as you-- as you—"

"What? Say it," he spits out, grabbing her wrist.

"No."

"Say it, Robin. As I what?"

"You _use_ them, like they're little dolls. Your little playthings to fuck up. I have feelings, you know."

His hand is still on her wrist, his grip not exactly violent, but not gentle either. "Oh, and I don't." Barney breaks eye contact then. "I couldn't possibly."

She wants to scream at him that he's a liar, because it's the only explanation, the only way she could have seen in his expression what she _thinks_ she saw, that it couldn't have been real, it could only have been the heat of the moment, that amazing fucking mind-blowing moment, because it couldn't have been love, not from him, not for her. Instead she pulls her wrist away and slides off his lap. She doesn't notice whether he's still hard, and doesn't want to know. That's not happening now, either way. She stands and stretches the cramp in her legs, avoiding his eyes. There's a lump in her throat. "Fine. Sorry."

"Oh, save it, Scherbatsky." He's really pissed, she can tell. "I don't know what's up with you tonight, but I'll give you it. Fine. But don't expect that again. Don't expect _any_ of that again. Got it? You don't get to jump on my lap and get me that fucking hard and then say I'm the one who uses people and has no feelings and whatever the hell else you're thinking."

Tears have actually spilled onto her cheeks now. _Get a grip_, she thinks, but she can't. The words hurt, mostly because she knows how deserved they are, how irrational she's being.

Barney stands, buttoning his shirt up. The place where she ripped off a button hangs forlornly open. They're both still breathing hard, hardly daring to look at each other.

"I'm sorry," Robin chokes out after a moment. "I'm all over the place."

He looks up from his shirt and she can tell he's taken aback by her tears, because he instantly softens. "Okay, look," he says hesitantly. "You all right?"

Robin nods.

Barney sighs. "It's been a long… year. Whatever. I get it."

"You don't have to do that. Pretend like I haven't just been a complete… whatever." Robin looks at her shoes, willing the lump in her throat to go away. "But you know… what you do… to girls… to me. I meant it when I said it's—it's unhinging." She bites her lip and looks at him, trying to show him how honestly she means it. "It's unnerving," she adds. She shrugs slowly.

Barney doesn't say anything. Just puts his hands in his pockets.

She wipes at her cheek, tugs at her wrinkled dress. "Right. Yeah. So. Don't worry. Like you said, I won't expect any of it—any of that—again. Back to normal, I swear." She feigns a bright smile. Her chest feels a little tight again, this time more from ache than panic.

Barney hesitates. Then he strides over to her, scorches her with a kiss, licks at her lower lip.

"Bye, Robin," he says quietly, and his expression reveals nothing. He claps twice and the lights go out. He turns and walks into his bedroom, closing the door hard behind him.

When she looks down, there's a quarter in her hand.

--


End file.
